gutenberg. ’ Melusine’s voice petered out. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. . . It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. “Is Lady Lescelles in?” he asked the butler.
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